Veteran's Day
by Mezo Phane
Summary: Her shop was on a quiet San Francisco street, and November 11 was one of her busiest days.


**A.N. I have not posted anything to this fandom in years, and I know this oneshot is months overdue considering the topic, but um, I hope you like it, and Happy New Year to all!**

**Disclaimer: I own nothing of Star Trek, not even a tribble. Unless you count a LEGALLY purchased copy of ST:2009. *shrugs***

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Her shop was on a quiet San Francisco street, and looked more like one you'd find in the early 21st century. It was the way her great-great-grandfather built the shop, and if you asked her, she wouldn't have it any other way. Her shop was one of the very few shops left on that side of the coast that still had flowers grown the old way, without the use of a replicator. Yeah, she had those impostor flowers, but for her, there was just something about flowers grown in actual, living soil.

Business was good enough. She had just opened her shop on November 11, and now she was checking her inventory, knowing that today would be busy. Many people would be coming to buy flowers for their loved ones buried at Starfleet Memorial Cemetery. Coming from the back room, the old brass bell over the door rang, indicating someone had just come in, and smoothing down her apron, she looked up, a pleasant smile on her face, when her jaw fell slack at the sight of her customer. Before her was blonde haired, blue-eyed, Captain James Kirk. Any living person in the galaxy would recognize him.

"Hi," he sheepishly smiled.

"H-how can I help you, Ca-Mr. Kirk?" she stammered.

"Flowers. I-I'd like to buy some. A-and it's Jim, call me Jim. Mr. Kirk was my father."

"Certainly, certainly, what would you like? I have some beautiful roses, lilies, or if you want something more exotic, I even have Vulcan Su'no blossoms —"

"No, I was hoping you had some zinnias, yellow zinnias, and pink carnations."

Hmm. Those were surprisingly plain. Not what she would have expected someone like Captain Kirk to buy. An additional thought regarding those particular flowers struck her, that she couldn't quite recall.

"I have those, would you like them all in one bouquet?"

"No, no, I'd like them separate."

He stopped her before she could enter the back room. "Um, those-those are soil-grown, right? Not replicated?"

"Certainly, this is my family's shop, and we have prided ourselves on selling soil-grown flowers. Unless you prefer replicated? We have those too," she said with a bitter twist to her lips.

"No, the soil-grown, please."

Smiling, she went to the back, assembled the bouquets and came out, placing them on the counter.

"100 Federation Credits, please."

"Could you add two cards?"

"Yes, what would you like them to say?"

"Um," he rubbed the back of his neck nervously.

"If you'd prefer —"

"No, no, um, for the yellow zinnias, I'd like it to read, 'Rest in Peace, Dad', and for the carnations, 'Sleep Tight, Dad'."

The words struck her, but not wanting to make him uncomfortable, she typed the messages and affixed them to the assigned bouquets.

"That makes it 104 Federation Credits, please."

Tapping his credit chip against the reader, he took his bouquets, and smiling, murmured "Thank you," as he walked into the early morning sun.

She hardly could believe that she had just sold flowers to THE James Kirk, and she sighed, as she sat on her stool, waiting for the day's customers.

That evening, she was closing her shop, shutting off all the lights when she passed the pink carnations and yellow zinnias in her back room. The thought that had avoided her that morning came to her. It was a memory from her early childhood, of sitting on her grandmother's knee and learning the ancient Victorian language of flowers. "Something every self-respecting florist should know," she said.

Yellow zinnias symbolized daily remembrance, and pink carnations symbolized the thought "I will never forget you".

Wistfully, she shut off the final light, and locked the back door.

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That evening, a bouquet of yellow zinnias lay at the grave of George Kirk, and pink carnations on the grave of Christopher Pike.

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